In the Moment
by Quillinx
Summary: What do you do if you want to take your work partner on a date? Well, if you're Sherlock Holmes, you set up an elaborate fake crime that will lead you and your partner Joan Watson into some rather adorable situations, and since it's the holiday season- we all know what happens at the end. (HINT: mistletoe!) Joan/Sherlock
1. December 20, 2013

**I hadn't written any Elementary fanfiction yet and welllll**

**my friend twobagelscollide gave me this adorable idea for Sherlock taking Joan on a date by faking a whole case that leads them into purposely romantic situations and at the end there's like Joanlock realization so **

**omg sorry I just can't resist x"D**

**Anyways, I'm going to try and update on the actual days starting today, and there will be five chapters. ;P**

**wahhhh i'm sorry if i screwed anything up btw c"x i feel sure that i did somehow**

* * *

_December 20_

Sherlock didn't wake up, but that was because he didn't sleep. At 1 AM in the morning, after having made several extremely productive phone calls, he was not feeling inclined to simply doze off. He almost had this set up. Now if Captain Gregson would just be cooperative…

"Sherlock?" The sleepy voice from the stairs momentarily surprised him; he turned and raised his eyebrows as Joan came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. "What are you doing up this late?"

"Not sleeping" he replied, somewhat flippantly, switching his phone off with one hand. The small movement caught her eye, but she was tired and didn't make anything of it.

"Go to bed," she said bluntly, pushing past him to the sink. The ripple of running water filled the otherwise-silent kitchen. He didn't turn around, but could imagine her reaching over to shut the water off, raising the glass to her lips and sipping.

"I'm serious, Sherlock," she said tiredly, setting the glass down on the counter with a soft clunk and walking back over to the stairs. "I'm coming down to check on you in an hour if the lights are still on."

Sherlock sighed inwardly as she began making her way back up the stairs. He knew she would keep her word, too. And he would hate to deal with a sleep-deprived Watson tomorrow, not when he had so much planned for her.

Ah, well. A hour would be plenty of time to wrap up preparations. He returned his gaze to his phone and began sending texts again.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Joan turned over in her bed and glared sleepily at Sherlock, who bounced up from leaning over her bed and rubbed his hands together.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he said briskly. "There's a new case that requires our attention."

Joan groaned and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Four-thirty sharp," said Sherlock cheerfully. "And we're expected at the station in an hour. Really, Watson, aren't you used to this by now?"

"I should be," muttered Joan, taking the clothes that he had laid out for her and disappearing beneath the sheets. "But I'm not!" she added, her voice muffled by fabric.

"Of course," said Sherlock softly, rocking back on his heels impatiently as he waited for her to finish. His phone beeped, and he glanced down at its screen distractedly.

Gregson:

All right, I'll go along with it, God help me. You better not hurt Joan, you hear?

Sherlock smirked and deleted the text as Joan's head emerged from the covers. If this went well- and he fully intended it to- Gregson would have absolutely no reason to worry.

* * *

She came into the hallway as he was fixing his scarf, brushing past him to pull her coat down from its hook and pull it on.

"Ready to go?" he asked, unnecessarily, and she gave a quick nod, pulling the hat over her ears because it was cold out. He noticed the new boots; they looked sturdy and would certainly withstand the snow, but would also most likely be worn out and unusable by next year. He decided not to mention it, instead straightening his jacket and striding to the door.

"Shall we?"

And the two of them broke out into the street, the cold air hitting their faces and brief snowflakes melting on their skin. A brief smile flashed on her face before she became all business again, keeping pace with him effortlessly as they walk through the snowy roads.

"So, what is this case about?" she asked, looking slightly up at him as the sharp wind blew her hair all around her face, peeking out from her hat like a disobedient child. Sherlock suppressed a smile and launched into acting mode.

"Some very important files were stolen from the police base, last night," he said seriously. Joan immediately looked hard at him, confusion flashing briefly in her intelligent eyes.

"The NYPD?" she asked. "That seems pretty unlikely. Somebody broke in, then?"

"I was surprised too," said Sherlock casually, the hand in his pocket tracing the corner of his cell phone. I hope Gregson did it right. "Apparently the thief wore gloves and left very little evidence."

"What files did he take?" asked Joan, brushing a strand of hair our of her eyes.

"Technically, he didn't take anything." Sherlock paused for dramatic effect as Joan furrowed her eyebrows. "The thief was carrying his cell phone. It's suspected that he scanned and saved the contents of the file onto his phone." He blinked and shrugged slightly. "Very sneaky. He didn't cause a big scene."

He watched Joan's eyes widen in realization.

"But… that's going to be almost impossible," she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "It could be anyone!" She glanced around at the busy New York streets, overflowing with Christmas shoppers and tourists.

"We have a list of five suspects, from Gregson," said Sherlock. Suspects that I made up. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly skimmed through the five photographs that he had taken in the last week, watching Joan worriedly as she took the phone and flipped through the pictures. This was the moment that she could become suspicious. Would she recognize his homeless network?

"They look nothing alike," was Joan's only comment, handing the phone back to him. Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief. So far, so good. "So… now we just have to track these people down?"

"You make it sound easy," said Sherlock, with a touch of amusement. _And believe me, if things go according to plan, this will be anything but easy._

* * *

Gregson shot Sherlock a sharp look as the pair walked into the police base, Joan reaching up casually to brush some snow off of Sherlock's hat. He gave Gregson the slightest of smirks and winked.

"So… these very important files," said Joan, shoving her gloves in her pocket. "What are they about?"

Sherlock froze and watched the slightest flicker of confusion dart across Gregson's face before he relaxed.

"That's classified information," he said, shrugging as Joan glared at him.

"But we're solving the case!"

"Still classified." Sherlock realized that Gregson really didn't know. That was probably a good thing, considering what the files actually were.

"Come along, Watson," said Sherlock briskly, hustling her away from Gregson. _Everything's going to be fine. But, well, it's always good to take precautions. And I can't trust Gregson to be that sneaky._

He could swear he heard the man laughing behind his back.

* * *

"So… this first guy," said Joan curiously as they started out on the streets again. It had stopped snowing, and the sky had cleared to a kind of bright white.

"Roy Lincoln," said Sherlock, glancing down at his phone, even though he had already memorized all of the "fake" information. "He's twenty-nine years old, hasn't got much money and lives alone."

"Why d'you think he might have taken the info?" asked Joan, peering at the photograph of the young man. "He looks younger than twenty-nine," she added as an afterthought. Sherlock chose to ignore this, pleased at her perception. He's seventeen. But twenty-nine is more credible. Joan gave the face one last look.

"The files have to do with some sensitive information about the NYPD," improvised Sherlock, and Joan gave him a quick look. "A case that got hushed up a while ago. All five of these suspects have some kind of grudge against the police."

"I thought this was classified information," said Joan. Sherlock forced himself to laugh and roll his eyes.

"Come now, Watson, when have I ever abided by Captain Gregson's rules?"

Joan gave him a strange look, but appeared to drop the topic after a moment.

"So… you think that these people want to use the info as blackmail," she clarified.

"Right."

Joan thought about it for a moment. "What's Roy's grudge, then?" she asked as Sherlock stopped by the side of the road.

"His mother was put into jail for stealing money from her ex-husband's business," Sherlock said. Joan stepped up beside him and yelled for a taxi. "Apparently Roy is still trying to prove them wrong. He's always looking for cases that the police make mistakes on."

"Seems pretty extreme," commented Joan, opening the door of the taxi that had pulled up. "I wouldn't do that for my mother."

Sherlock paused, then shrugged, simply sitting down next to her.

"Where to?" asked the taxi driver casually, leaning back over the front seat.

"Do you know the Candle Cafe?" asked Sherlock. "Upper East Side."

* * *

"Does Roy Lincoln work here?" Sherlock asked politely, placing one hand on the counter. He turned, looking for Joan- want to have her conduct this interview- and saw her chatting with a handsome man near the window. Sherlock made a series of snap decisions. _She's familiar with this person, but on her guard- ex-boyfriend OH she's smiling more than usual and he's laughing more than usual he thinks he has another chance with her should probably go and get her before problems happen._

Not waiting for the overweight man behind the counter to reply, he pushed himself away and strode over to the window where the two of them were standing.

"-just came back to New York on business," said the man, sounding as far away from business as possible, at the moment. Joan smiled before spotting Sherlock; he saw a trace of nervousness flit across her face.

"Alec, this is Sherlock Holmes." she introduced quickly. "My work partner and teacher. Sherlock, this is Alec Hanson."

"Nice to meet you," said Alec, offering Sherlock a warm smile that Sherlock didn't return. "Joanie, a work partner? I thought you were a sober companion?" _Shows how much you know. He hasn't kept in touch with her recently and dated her after she was a surgeon, while she was a sober companion, broke up with her in a friendly way since they're talking together now._ He pushed down a flash of annoyance.

"I work solving crimes now," said Joan, the pride in her voice making Sherlock feel warm inside. "Sherlock's teaching me." Alec looked at Sherlock cautiously.

"You work with him, then… you're not, like…?"

Sherlock resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Joan looked puzzled for a second before realizing.

"Oh! No, we're not like that," she said easily. Alec looked more relieved than he had a right to be. Sherlock decided that this had gone far enough. Grabbing Joan's arm, he gave Alec a smile that he knew was obviously fake.

"Yes, now, if you'll excuse us, we're on a case right now," he said quickly, tugging on Joan's arm. She looked surprised, giving him a confused look.

"Oh, okay," Alec started to say, but Sherlock was already pulling Joan away rather forcefully. Once they were back at the counter, he let go before she could shake him off.

"What was that all about?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"He was wasting our time," he said briskly. She gave him a glare that morphed into a look of realization. He stared at her for a second, wondering what it was she had thought of.

"Sherlock…" she started. "You're not _jealous,_ are you?"

_Ouch._ A little too close to the truth for comfort. He arranged his features into a look of blunt surprise.

"Jealous? Jealous of what?" he inquired, faking confusion. She shook her head slightly, giving him an uncomfortably intelligent look.

"Like… me, and him." She let out a tiny sigh. "Like, would you have a problem if I started dating someone.."

_Yes, very much so._ "Of course not. Wherever did you get that idea?" He raised his eyebrows as she shrugged, blinking a few times. He felt like she was trying to see through his head.

"Just a thought."

"Watson, your love life is not my concern in the least," he said in his crispest tone, turning away. "Now, if you don't mind, we have an investigation to conduct here. Perhaps we can resume this conversation about emotions another time." _Hopefully, it won't be necessary._

"Of course." He had the satisfaction of seeing the faintest blush on her cheeks as she walked up to stand beside him. While they had been talking, the fat man in the apron had apparently called "Roy Lincoln" from the back room.

"Lovers' quarrel, eh?" he said, smirking at Joan's and Sherlock's twin looks of surprise.

"Hardly," said Sherlock. "Is this Mr. Lincoln?"

"That's me," said "Roy", giving Sherlock a little wink from behind the fat man's shoulder before coming forward. Sherlock looked to Joan, making it clear that it would be her job to ask the questions. She seemed a little flustered.

"Were you near the NYPD police base on December 19th at all?" she asked.

"Yeah, in the evening." Joan looked interested, glancing once at Sherlock. "I was walking back from work here. I work as a waiter."

"When does your shift end?" asked Joan.

"8:30," said Roy quickly. Right before the crime happened. "I always pass the police base on my way home."

"I saw him go," put in the fat man.

"Did you go in the building at all?" Joan asked sharply.

"Nope, I went straight home," said Roy.

"When did you get home?"

"8:45," said Roy. Fifteen minutes before the crime. "My girlfriend was in the apartment, she'd tell you that I was there." Nice touch. Roy appeared to be having fun with the part he was playing. Joan glanced at Sherlock again.

"We'll check with her, too," Sherlock said. "Did you notice anything strange happening near the police base at all?"

"Nope," said Roy, shrugging. "People go in and out of there all the time, though, would be pretty easy for the guy to sneak in."

"True." said Joan.

"Anything else you want to say?" asked Sherlock.

"Nope," said Roy again. "Good luck solving your crime!" Sherlock winked at him. He gave Sherlock a thumbs-up, which confused Joan.

_One down, four to go._


	2. Real Serious

**oh my god =_= this chapter is super not imaginative xDD i'msorryforthefiller**

**i've just had a terrible time with inspiration so like none of this makes practical sense i'm just writing it for fun ||D and plus i still dunno if this whole thing if i'm writing it realistically or not ! xD**

**anyways**

**i hope you enjoy anyways x""D**

* * *

"So, Roy Lincoln didn't do it," said Joan, hurrying a little to keep up as Sherlock strode out the door.

"Suppose not," Sherlock said, faking thoughtfulness. Inside he was gleeful. The first part of his plan had gone well. Now for the more complex bits.

"You said there were five main suspects, right?" asked Joan.

"Right." Sherlock said. "We'll be visiting the second one in his flat, I think he should be there around now."

* * *

Sherlock rang the doorbell of the apartment and tapped his foot impatiently. He had rented it himself, of course. Once again, he wondered if the whole complex plan was even going to be worth it. Sherlock was not one to doubt himself, especially in the middle of the plan, but human emotions- Joan's emotions- were unpredictable. Maybe that was why he loved-

The door opened, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts abruptly.

"Is this Mr. Andrew Hixby?" asked Joan politely. The young man smiled at her.

"That's me," he said, glancing once at Sherlock before looking again at Joan. "Um… is there a problem?"

"We'd just like to ask you a few questions," Joan said. "We think you might have been involved in a crime that took place last night." "Andrew"'s eyebrows shot up.

"Well, you'd better come in, then," he said.

Sherlock and Joan sat on one end of the sofa, while the young man leaned forwards on his knees in a chair in the living room.

"So… a crime?" he asked innocently. "What crime are we talking about?"

"Some important information was taken from the NYPD police base," broke in Sherlock. "Witnesses say that you were seen near the scene of the crime."

"Me?" asked the man incredulously. "I would never steal anything!" He spread his arms, looking the very picture of confusion. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Well, you're proven to have reasons to resent the police force," pointed out Joan. The man looked briefly confused.

"Oh… no, well, I mean, that was the past," he blustered. Sherlock hadn't realized what good actors his homeless network were. "Believe me, I never even realized whatever it is you're talking about existed before now! Last night, I was over at my old mom's house. You can call her and ask her; she'll back me up."

"Okay, okay, we're not accusing you of anything," cut in Joan, raising her hands. The "suspect" calmed down. "We've just got to ask everybody who was seen near the police base last night."

"So… I'm not in trouble?" asked Andrew anxiously.

"No, I'm pretty sure you're fine," said Joan, glancing at Sherlock, who nodded at her. "We'll be checking up on everything you said, of course, but if everything goes well you shouldn't have to be taken in for questioning."

"Thank goodness!" said Andrew exaggeratedly, giving Sherlock a big, fake smile. "You really gave me a scare there!"

"Yes, ha ha," said Sherlock uncomfortably, standing up and beckoning for Joan to stand as well. "We'll be off now."

"Thank you for your time," said Joan. Just then, the doorbell rang, startling Andrew and Joan. Sherlock hid his smile. Oh, this will be good.

"Sorry, hold on and let me get that," said Andrew, walking towards the door. Sherlock heard it open and a few brief mutters exchanged. Quickly, he tapped Joan on the shoulder, turning her attention towards him. Inconspicuously, he made sure their wrists were close together.

"Well, that was a dead end," said Joan, one corner of her mouth quirking up. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder once.

"Yes, well, at least we have another suspect eliminated," he said, hearing footsteps in the hall. Joan started to look around; Sherlock swiftly directed her attention back to him._ Just a few more moments…_ "Watson, listen closely to what I'm about to say," he said urgently. Just as he had expected, Joan turned to him expectantly, and…

Something cold and hard clicked around Sherlock's wrist at the same time as he heard Joan give a startled yelp. The next second, he felt his arm being wrenched nearly out of its socket as he and Joan tumbled to the floor in an ungainly heap.

"Watson, hold still," he yelled, hearing the jingle of the handcuffs. _Everything's going according to plan._ Her fingers were warmer than his as they brushed against his hands.

"What's going on?!" she demanded as he wriggled off her and sat up, scanning the room. Andrew, wearing a silly expression of shock on his face, was behind the "third suspect", who was grinning cockily- probably enjoying this whole thing, Sherlock thought- and holding up a small silver key.

"He's handcuffed us together," said Sherlock, bringing their cuffed hands into view. "Probably trying to slow us down!"

"Third suspect" winked at them and then bolted down the hallway.

Joan immediately tried to leap to her feet, only succeeding in crashing to the ground again.

"Ugh," she said, gazing at their connected wrists. "Okay, we're going to have to work together..."

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "All right, we're going to stand up slowly, and at the same time… now." He and Joan and Sherlock rose to their feet shakily. Joan looked a little upset, but mostly annoyed and confused. _It'll be good training for her,_ Sherlock told himself. He was surprised at how unbalanced he had been. _I'm out of practice… when was the last time I was handcuffed to someone?_

With a small shock, he realized that it had been with Irene. The two of them had cuffed both their hands together, swallowed the keys, and then spent a giddy hour-and-half doing their best to unlock themselves. It had been the kind of creative thing Irene had loved. He hadn't given it a second thought- not for a long time now.

With another shock, he realized that it didn't hurt to think about. Not with Joan right next to him, her wrist brushing hers lightly, and the blood pumping in his veins.

_What I thought would never heal…_

"Something wrong?" asked Joan, and he realized that he had been silent for an inordinately amount of time.

"Everything's fine." He blinked twice and turned to her briskly, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Now we can run," he said.

They sprinted down the hallway together, Sherlock leading and Joan following. He risked looking back and almost lost his balance because of the way her eyes had lighted up and the way her hair blew out of her face as they ran out the open door and into the street. The handcuffs jingled around their wrists as both of them looked around. People on the streets gave them strange looks.

"Over there!" yelled Joan suddenly, pointing. Third suspect was waving teasingly from around the corner of a building, the key flashing in the light. As the two bolted in that direction, the man disappeared from view. Sherlock shoved aside a middle-aged man, hearing Joan yell an apology as they sprinted away.

Their feet pounded against the ground in rhythm as they rounded the corner, the metal of the handcuffs pulling against Sherlock's skin as they tripped and veered away from each other slightly. He was grinning by now, enjoying the thrill of the chase as third suspect led them through a convoluted path through New York. Sherlock was pretty sure he had seen at least three people call the police. _Well, it's not like two people handcuffed to each other come rampaging through the streets every day._

"God, I think we lost him," panted Joan at last, wincing as they skidded to a halt, Joan looking all around and Sherlock looking at her. He wasn't sure how much ground they had covered, but it had been a lot. He watched his breath plume out into the air in front of his face. His face was freezing against the cold wind, but his right hand was warm.

_What?_

Looking down at his handcuffed hand, he suddenly realized that at some point during the chase, he and Joan had locked hands. Her smaller hand was warm and smooth in his. He wondered how neither of them had noticed it happen. At what point…?

Well, if he pointed it out now, it would just be awkward, so he looked up again.

"Hey, there he is!" broke out Joan, briefly forgetting and pointing with her left hand. Before Sherlock could react, the both of them were crushed into the ground again.

"Oops," she said, her voice muffled by the snow. "Forgot about the handcuffs."

Sherlock just laughed and pulled them both back upright, taking Joan's other hand in his own and pulling her to her feet. They stood there for a second, facing each other and holding hands, both dusted with snow and rosy-cheeked. Sherlock was very aware of how long the moment was stretching out. Their eyes met and Joan blinked, obviously caught off-guard. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of third suspect smirking at him.

"We're going to lose him," he pointed out gently. Joan blinked again.

"Oh!" she said, which was unlike her.

Sherlock reluctantly let go of her hands and pulled her along after third suspect, who disappeared down an alleyway.

They chased third suspect down the long alley until, as planned, they cornered him down a dead end. He grinned cheekily and tossed the silver key up in the air.

"The game's up," said Sherlock, holding out a hand. "Give us the key."

"Who is this guy?" asked Joan, breathing hard, a flush of pink in her cheeks that Sherlock tried not to notice.

"The third suspect," he told her. Her eyebrows jerked up. "That's why he wanted to slow us down, make his getaway. A bad tactic," he added to the cornered man, who only smirked and dropped the key into Sherlock's outstretched palm.

"We're sending you back to the station for questioning," said Sherlock, bending around and using the key to unlock his and Joan's wrists. There was a rush of cold air as they separated, Joan wringing her wrist and sighing. Sherlock quietly pocketed the handcuffs.

* * *

"You're another one of Sherlock's fake suspects, eh?" asked Gregson, letting the bedraggled man into his office. "Have a seat."

"Yup, m'name's Jake," said the man, sitting in the offered chair and grinning at the police captain. "Pleased t'meet ya."

"Care for some coffee?" asked Gregson, holding out a steaming mug.

"Don't mind if I do," said Jake, taking the cup and drinking deeply out of it. "Ahhh, that's the stuff. Thank ya, Captain."

"You're welcome," said Gregson, sitting down behind his desk and watching the man sip more coffee. "So… you're helping Sherlock Holmes with this… crazy plan?" he asked.

The man gave a short bark of laughter.

"Pretty crazy, yeah," he admitted. "But I mean, we're all real loyal to him, and 'twasn't anything big that we were doing. I thought it was kinda fun."

"And do you think Sherlock will succeed?" asked Gregson quietly. Jake appeared to consider this.

"Depends on what ya think the goal is," he said at last.

"You know. Winning Joan over."

"Well, you know, 'bout Holmes," Jake said thoughtfully, "he don't fail at much. And if he really wants to succeed at something, you can bet your boots that sooner or later, he'll get what he wants." The man gave Gregson a small, crooked smile.

"I'm worried about Joan," Gregson confessed. "I don't want Sherlock to hurt her."

"Hurt her?" Jake actually laughed. "Cap'n, from what I can see, Joan kin take perfectly good care of herself. They been living together for a while now, haven't they?"

"Well. Yes."

"And she's not dead yet, is she?"

"No, she's not." Gregson paused. "And that's something impressive in itself, to be honest."

The two men shared a chuckle.

"Seriously, though, Cap'n," said Jake, leaning forward slightly, "don't worry about Joan. Sherlock takes her real serious. He cares a lot about her."

He gave Gregson a smile.


	3. Waltz in E Minor

**dies inside**

**i wrote this chapter at like midnight and i don't think it's any good x""D**

**okay well i'm in london right now and YES I KNOW OMG I'M DYING BECAUSE LONDON ENGLAND AND**

**yyyeah xD so i won't be able to update as much as i wanted to, that's actually the reason why this story didn't get done by christmas so sorry about that! x_x;;**

**i might not be able to update again until after the trip and this chapter sucks, but i'm going to try and make things more complicated with the fifth suspect. ;A;**

**hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Only two suspects left?" Joan asked Sherlock. Sherlock started to answer when his phone buzzed. He whipped it out.

_Gregson:_

_Had a nice chat. Sent him on his way. Gave him coffee like you said. Hows it going?_

Sherlock quickly tapped something out in reply.

_Me:_

_good. going fine, dnt txt again._

He could practically hear Gregson huffing on the other end.

"Just Gregson," he said to Joan, deleting both texts and putting the phone back in his pocket. "He said that third suspect is innocent."

"Well, then," Joan said, putting her hands in the air.

"We're heading home," said Sherlock. Joan, probably worn out, didn't complain as Sherlock called a taxi. They rode back to the brownstone in a companionable silence.

"I'm turning in," announced Joan at 9:30, pausing at the foot of the steps to address Sherlock. "I hope you don't stay up too late."

"I won't," said Sherlock placidly, pretending to be flipping through some old case files. From behind the papers, he heard Joan's footsteps tripping up the stairs, and then the sound of her door opening and closing.

As soon as Joan was gone, Sherlock leapt to his feet and pulled out a plastic shopping bag from behind the couch. He pulled out two clothes hangers from it, enjoying the rustle of the plastic coverings.

"Lovely," he murmured, admiring the purchases. A clean-cut black suit for himself, and for Joan, a cream-colored dress with a form-fitting cut and a modest neckline. The bottom of the skirt would come to about halfway down her calves, and there was a floating sort of pink scarf to go along as well. Sherlock had chosen something he thought she might like, based on her normal clothing choices, but he found himself nervous now that he looked at it.

_Well, at any rate, she'll look beautiful in it either way,_ he thought, _and half the people at this party will have terrible taste anyways._ Reassured by this thought, he put the clothes back in the bag.

_December 21_

Sherlock kept Joan busy all day, practicing escaping handcuffs and other things.

"But don't we need to be working on that important case?" she complained, wriggling her hands around in a vain attempt to keep her dignity while handcuffed.

"Tonight," Sherlock told her, thinking of the fake party invitations in an envelope in his room.

When Joan saw them, she was stunned.

"Sherlock—a Christmas dance party?" she stammered, surprisingly flustered as she held the thick card.

"Suspect four's mother will be there," he explained, pulling the shopping bag from behind his back and presenting it to her. "We'll have to pose as a posh couple, to fit in with all the other posh couples, you see." He rather enjoyed the look of shock on her face as she produced the sleek cream dress.

"Sherlock—this is—how much did this cost?" she exclaimed, half-disapproving.

"That doesn't matter," he said briskly. "You should try it on; we might have to return it if it doesn't fit you, and we've got to get to the party on time."

The look she threw him was shyer than he had expected.

"The dress is lovely," she said quietly, putting it back in the bag. "But… Sherlock, are you sure you don't want to do this part… by yourself?"

He was surprised.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, inwardly anxious.

"It's nothing," said Joan, looking uncomfortable.

"Is it because you don't want me as a partner?" asked Sherlock, hurt. Joan shook her head immediately.

"No!" she said, her knuckles white against the strings of the shopping bag.

"Watson, I can't dance by myself." said Sherlock coolly.

"And I can't dance at all!" burst out Joan.

The two were silent, gazing at each other for a second. Joan ducked her head, hiding behind her curtain of sleek black hair.

"Watson, why didn't you tell me?" asked Sherlock in a gentler voice, confused. Is she that upset with just such a little thing? Joan shook her head slightly, looking up at him.

"You'll be fine by yourself, right?" she asked, instead of answering his question. Sherlock hesitated for the merest fraction of a second. _The whole point was to have her along…_

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, reaching out and taking her hand. "How could you ever suggest that I would be fine at all, without you to assist me?" His tone was light, jesting; she rolled her eyes at him, but didn't shake her hand free.

"Now you're going to try and teach me how, aren't you," she guessed.

"It's easier than single stick," Sherlock joked, and was gratified to see a smile creep onto her face. He took her other hand and slowly guided her into the first position of the simple waltz.

"There's no music," said Joan.

"You don't need music," Sherlock told her. "Just a partner is enough."

They waltzed slowly around the room, Joan slightly clumsy, Sherlock guiding her around stray pieces of paper and old files. She felt light and delicate in his arms, like a butterfly.

"See, you're doing fine," he said, smiling at her. She stepped on his foot.

"Sorry!"

"Never mind," Sherlock said, smiling and closing his eyes for a second. Despite her lack of experience, Joan was picking up the steps quite well.

"I think I'm getting it," she announced after a while.

"Good," he said encouragingly.

Neither of them showed any indication of wanting to stop, so Sherlock kept leading Joan into new dances, tapping out the imaginary rhythm with his foot. They swung around in a circle and Sherlock spun Joan around in a pirouette, catching her as she stumbled and almost fell.

"I feel ridiculous," she said, her eyes laughing up at him. He held her for a few lingering moments before setting her on her feet.

"You don't look ridiculous," he assured her, making a sweeping bow. She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching up, and then glanced at her watch.

"Oh, we're going to be late for the party," she said in surprise. Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. Where had the time gone?

"Do you feel ready to dance?" he asked her.

"Maybe," she said, her mouth quirking up into a definite smile. She turned and picked up the shopping bag before heading upstairs.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock saw Joan in the cream-colored dress, he knew he had made the right decision.

"You look stunning," he complimented her casually, waiting for her at the door with her coat.

She took it from him and nodded, accepting the compliment quietly, and then gestured in approval of his suit. "Very dapper."

"Shall we?" he said, offering his arm. She rolled her eyes again, but she also smiled again as he led her out into the street, where night was gradually falling.

The two of them climbed into a taxi and Joan showed the invitation to the driver. As they drove through the streets, Joan looked thoughtfully out the window, while Sherlock pretended to be lost in thought about the case and planned out the next part of his plan.

When the taxi halted outside the large building, Sherlock paid the driver and climbed out of the car, waiting for Joan to emerge as well so they could look the part of the dance couple. He led her like a gentleman to the door, where they could hear music and laughter seeping from the dance floor.

"Ready?" he asked lightly, his hand on the handle.

"As I'll ever be," she joked, holding his arm.

They entered into the already-busy room, which was huge, with a high, elegant ceiling and which was lined with long tables loaded with rather fanciful-looking dishes and sweets. Holly and Christmas wreaths were hung all around, as well as impressively tall Christmas trees, one in each corner of the room. Glitter practically floated through the air, and the combination of dim lighting and small, golden candles gave the whole room a warm holiday feel.

There were several couples on the dance floor already, as well as people standing around talking quietly to each other and sipping out of delicate wineglasses.

"Hungry?" inquired Sherlock. Joan shook her head no. "Then let's get to finding Mrs. Whitson."

The two of them danced delicately through the crowd, and Joan only stepped on Sherlock's feet twice. In their expensive outfits, nobody gave them a second glance, and they were able to find their way to Mrs. Whitson without much trouble. Sherlock couldn't help wishing that the old lady had made herself a little bit more difficult to find; he had been enjoying twirling Joan, who was really an excellent dance partner for having begun to learn that evening, through the elegant settings.

As soon as "Mrs. Whitson" saw Sherlock, she excused herself from the group of matronly ladies she had been exchanging gossip with and hurried over to them.

"Why, Sherlock!" she piped in her quavering voice. "It's been so very long, my dear boy! I had no idea you were invited." Sherlock hugged her carefully, whispering "so far so good" into her ear. The lady smiled and then turned to Joan. "Who's this? Your girlfriend?"

"Apprentice and partner," broke in Joan. "We work together. I'm Joan Watson."

"Mrs. Whitson" surveyed Joan and Sherlock standing together dubiously, as if she didn't really believe Joan's words, but to Sherlock's relief she didn't push it.

"Nice to meet you, dear," she said, extending a friendly hand.

"And same to you," said Joan politely, shaking it. Mrs. Whitson turned to Sherlock, the very picture of grandmotherly fussiness.

"Now, Sherlock dear, I know you wouldn't have searched me out if you didn't want to ask me something," she said. "So spit it out."

"Now, Mrs. Whitson," Sherlock said, pretending to be hurt. "It's not like that at all. I mean, we do have a few questions, but I'm sure your company leaves nothing to be desired as well."

"Thought so," cackled Mrs. Whitson, beaming at Joan. "So what is it, dearie?"

"Do you happen to know if your son, Leonard Whitson, was possibly…" Joan hesitated, probably not wanting to hurt the feelings of this frail old lady; Sherlock wanted to laugh. "…involved in a theft of important information from a NYPD base on December 19th?"

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Whitson was the very picture of shock. "December 19th? Wasn't that just a few days ago? No, my Leonard was at home all day, honey. There's no way he possibly could have…"

"Are you sure he didn't go anywhere near…?" Joan asked cautiously.

Mrs. Whitson leaned in.

"Well, you know, he's unemployed," she stage-whispered in Joan's ear. "He spent the whole day in the kitchen looking up job ads—and saying the most unwholesome things about his last boss, too!" She gave a very realistic shudder and patted Joan on the shoulder.

"So you're sure he was home all day?" confirmed Joan.

"Positive," trilled Mrs. Whitson.

"Wonderful," broke in Sherlock, clapping his hands together. "Hopefully we haven't inconvenienced you too much, Mrs. Whitson! Someone from the NYPD will probably be dropping by your flat later, just to check on everything you said."

"Lovely people, those police folk," cried Mrs. Whitson cheerfully. "Now, run along now, you two lovebirds. The night's young yet!"

Before either of them could say anything else, the old lady had disappeared back into the crowd.

"So it wasn't him, either," said Joan, shrugging and looking at Sherlock.

"It doesn't seem likely," said Sherlock.

"Then… it must have been the fifth suspect," said Joan. "Only one left, huh? And what if he didn't do it, either?"

"Then we're in a bit of a strange spot," admitted Sherlock. But the thing is that I already know that the fifth suspect is the one who did it. "Process of elimination, though, quite straightforward."

"And what about the third suspect?" continued Joan. "The way he was acting was pretty suspicious. Are you sure Gregson didn't find out anything more about him?"

"They're holding him in the police base right now," replied Sherlock. "He'll probably stay there until the real culprit's found."

Joan frowned.

"Yeah, but I still want to know why he handcuffed us," she said, her eyes a bit more sharp than Sherlock felt comfortable with. _Maybe I didn't think this through well enough._

"Oh, lighten up, Watson," he said. "It's too late to do anything more on the case, anyways; the fifth suspect's a train ride away. Are you feeling up to a bit more dancing?"

She gave him a radiant smile, although he could tell that one part of her brain was still puzzling over the case.

"I thought you would never ask," she quipped, taking his hands. He let her lead the dance this time.


	4. Last Night

**SUPER SHORT chapter because i'm ridiculously busy**

**just got out of the hospital; so sorry i couldn't update amg!**

**it's wayyy past christmas now but i'm still going to finish this so hope y'all are still interested!**

**love 3**

* * *

_December 22_

Sherlock wasn't surprised that Joan got up late, tired after last night. They had danced till around midnight, then left quietly, having shredded the fake invitations in the nearest trash can. Joan had dozed the whole taxi ride home. Sherlock had been surprised that she had agreed to dance with him even after their work at the party was done, but he was also pleased. He sipped his coffee and then perked up a bit at hearing footsteps on the stairs.

"Good morning, Watson," he said as Joan walked into the kitchen.

"Morning," she replied drowsily, pouring herself a mug of coffee too and sitting down across from him.

There was a short pause while both of them sipped coffee.

"Last night was very… enjoyable," Sherlock said absently, setting his mug down on the table. Joan looked up in surprise.

"What, you mean the dancing?" she asked incredulously. "I mean, we were only there to get the information on Leonard Whitson, weren't we?"

"Of course," said Sherlock quickly, "but all the same, it was very enjoyable. You are a formidable dance partner, Watson."

"Only to your toes," muttered Joan, staring into her coffee cup.

"What, you didn't like it?" asked Sherlock, worried now. She had seemed to be having a fine time while they were there, he thought. Joan looked up again, quickly.

"No," she said after a short pause. "I liked it a lot… too."

They smiled at each other across the table.

"We must do it again sometime, then," said Sherlock, picking up his mug of coffee again and draining it.

"What?" asked Joan, laughing. "Interview creepy old ladies?"

"Mrs. Whitson is a perfectly nice creepy old lady," mock-scolded Sherlock. "No, I meant… dancing."

"Oh." Joan was so quiet that for a moment Sherlock was afraid he had offended her somehow. She had seemed very touchy as of late, especially with him. Just as he was about to say something, she raised her head, smiling the same glowing smile she had had last night.

"I would like that," she said.

Before the moment could get too awkward, Sherlock popped to his feet. Joan drank the last of her coffee as well and stood up, stretching before tying her hair back into a ponytail.

"Well, off we go," Sherlock said briskly. "This next suspect doesn't actually live in New York City. We're taking the train."

"Oh, how long will it take to get there?" Joan asked.

"About four hours, I'm afraid," said Sherlock. "Bring something to do."


	5. The Rest of the World

**Another super-short chapter**

**just filler for the train ride**

**hope you enjoy! 3**

* * *

_December 22_

The train rattled underneath Sherlock's feet as he flipped through some old case files he had saved to his phone, leaning against the seat and watching the world fly by backwards. Train rides were tedious and time-consuming, but he always had his mind to occupy him. And, now, Joan. He still had not gotten used to the way everything about her fascinated him, even simple things, like the way she was now. She was obviously trying to think about the case, but he could tell that she was getting sleepy from the way that her fingers had let the pages of the book she was holding drop and the limp position of her feet. He chose not to comment on this, instead letting his eyes drop back down to the files on his phone.

The other passengers on the train were mostly quiet. One girl was listening to a popular Top-40-Hits song on her headphones- Sherlock could tell by the rhythm of the short bobs of her head- and a middle-aged man was puzzling over a crossword. Sherlock listened to the hint that the man was muttering to himself over and over again and had solved it in less than a minute. The woman with the baby across from them was lesbian and had adopted the child, despite the colors of their hair being almost exactly the same. The girl and boy with matching engagement rings were obviously in a long-term relationship, but the boy was cheating on his girlfriend with someone who-ouch-must be _quite_ the passionate lover.

He glanced at Joan again, his mind running through all the familiar deductions- former doctor friend of Asian descent friend friend Watson help reliable friend Joan Watson friend beautiful friend friend friend- and then absorbed the new information. Sleepy-probably from last night- in a good mood? That's a good thing, right? Curious, puzzled, brow slightly furrowed. Most likely thinking about the case. That was good too. Just as long as she didn't figure it out. Figure him out. She had already solved the puzzle of him in so many ways, but perhaps he still had the power to surprise her.

The old man fast asleep near the door was traveling to stay with relatives, most likely a nephew or niece, since he had never been married or had children, and he owned a tuxedo cat- or rather, had owned, since he was moving in with his relatives, in a small apartment that Sherlock would be willing to bet did not allow pets.

He looked back at Joan and noticed her eyes slowly closing, her face sweet in repose. Her half-shut eyelids fluttered at him a few times.

"What are you staring at…" she mumbled. "Have I got something on my face?"

Sherlock restrained a laugh.

"No, you just look…" Adorable when you're sleepy. "...fine," he finished, studiously casual. Her eyes blinked in confusion, but she was quickly dozing off, and she didn't appear to give his words much thought.

"Don't-stare-Sherlock-it's-rude," she muttered, seemingly already lost in some dream or other.

The teenage girl sitting across the aisle from the old man was a Tumblr addict and probably had more than ten tattoos on her body, despite the fact that only the edge of one was visible with the clothing she was wearing. She didn't appear to be particularly wealthy, so a close friend in her life who was a tattoo artist, and- actually, the tattoo artist was a boyfriend, because she had kissed him before getting on the train, her lipstick was smudged slightly.

Joan's head dropped forward slightly and Sherlock felt a small nudge against his shoulder as her head dropped down lightly to rest against him. He automatically tensed up, on the alert, acutely aware that nothing like this had ever happened before. Joan and he had a very rigid set of unspoken rules, and no spontaneous affectionate actions was definitely one of them. If she hadn't been fast asleep, no doubt she would be horrified.

The two college-age girls sitting a row in front of the tattoo-artist-boyfriend-girl looked to be just friends, but were actually in a romantic relationship, because they wore the exact same shade of lipstick and the same brand of exceedingly pungent perfume. They were obviously trying to hide their sexuality, and, Sherlock supposed, doing quite well for a pair of young people in love. Also, the shorter one was bisexual while the tall, skinny one was lesbian.

The slight pressure of Joan's head against his side was relaxing, and he could feel her soft breathing through their coats. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly and she murmured something incoherent in her sleep, turning towards him and nuzzling her nose into his sleeve a little bit. One part of Sherlock's mind was busily calculating what exactly these tiny, unconscious movements could mean, but the larger part was simply struck dumb by her beauty and the sparks of hot emotion flickering in his chest, spurred on by her touch.

The man and woman sitting near the Top-40s girl were both Christian, but one was Catholic and one was Baptist, and- Watson hmmm new perfume?- they met at work most likely because they work for the same company- warm yes okay shh- and they own a- Watson - a dog? cat? - Watson- Joan- dog, maybe, a dog- Joan!- and-

He couldn't do it. He couldn't concentrate on anything except how close together they were, and how warm inside he felt, and how he found himself leaning into her side too, ever-so-slightly, and closing his eyes and blocking out the rest of the world because she was just so much better than the rest of the world.


End file.
